The Words
by TheRavenLady
Summary: While he was away, Sherlock wrote thirteen letters to John Watson- letters that he never sent. Letters that were never meant to be seen. But what happens when John finds them? A sequel to 'The Letters'; can be read as a stand-alone, but it is highly recommended to read the other one first.


For John Watson, everything changed with Sherlock. After he came home, drunker than all hell, to find his best friend, who had supposedly been dead for three years, sitting at the kitchen table and calmly waiting for him everything went topsy-turvy.

And God knew he had tried to pretend everything was okay- but it was most decidedly not okay, considering everything Sherlock had put him through. And that was counting both before and after he 'died'. Because John was definitely far from okay on that fateful night when Sherlock had decided to turn up again. Just sitting there, all cool and calm and actually a little small-looking; a feat which astounded John endlessly, for there was nothing small in the slightest about Sherlock Holmes.

Still. He'd had quite a time that night; he ended up not going to bed that night, and calling off his shift at the surgery the next day. He had cried, which was far from his intention; and Sherlock had sported a most impressive bruise on one of those sky-high cheekbones of his. Oh, yes- it had been a night to remember for the both of them.

He was grateful, of course. Relieved beyond words; and bugger it all if he said he wasn't more than happy at the reappearance of his best friend. Because even if John couldn't bear to even look at him some days, he hadn't wanted anything more than to have the man back in his life. It felt good. Right and natural and normal, which was something that had gained an erratic meaning in Sherlock's time away.

And over the course of the next few weeks after that fateful night, things slowly began to go back to normal; they slipped surprisingly easily into their old routine, settling comfortably back into the way things used to be. And though it had been three years, it still felt like yesterday; and some days, John could almost forget what had happened and assume the last three years had just been a slightly unpleasant blur, which comforted him on the days when it registered with him particularly hard.

But then he found the letters.

It was an off day; they hadn't had a case in almost a week, and things around the house were a bit dull and slow. Sherlock had gone off to the Yard to bother Lestrade about God only knew what- and John had opted to stay home for the day, deciding not to venture out into the rather nasty rain outside. He had settled in with some tea and a mindset to do some tidying. It seemed a simple enough thing to pass the time with.

John spent a good portion of time simply sorting through things and trying to determine if it was worth keeping- a task he had greatly underestimated, it seemed. He spent about two hours figuring out what was trash and what should even be moved at all, considering the nature of some of the experiments that Sherlock left lying about the place. It was definitely tedious and a little frustrating; but it kept his mind off of other things, and gave him something to do. He hadn't even thought of updating the blog yet; but that was something he wasn't quite ready to do, just then. For some unexplainable reason, he wanted to wait.

As the afternoon wore on, and John found himself surrounded by significantly less clutter than when he had started, he began to feel a true sense of accomplishment; he had blessed with a miracle in achieving this. So, one could imagine what high spirits he was in, considering how well he had so far managed to tackle the task he had undertaken.

But that all crashed and burned when he found the envelopes.

There was a small box, hidden behind a few layers of books and general clutter on Sherlock's end of the bookshelf. It was a plain, ordinary box, and there was nothing significant or special about it; which made John think he would find something at least relatively harmless within it. Little did he know, however, that the contents of that seemingly plain and harmless box were about to change him.

He slid it off the shelf, surprised by its lightness, and cradled it in his arms as he went and sat on the sofa, placing it on the coffee table. He leaned forward and opened the top; resting inside was a stack of envelopes and paper and some other odds and ends. His curiosity officially roused, John brought out the little pile and set it on the coffee table before him. On top of the stack was a white envelope; it was dirty and a bit worn, but in otherwise fair condition.

At the best, it would be old notes for discarded or long-finished experiments; and at the worse, it would be bill statements that Sherlock had ignored and tossed to the side. There was only one way to find out; so John opened the envelope.

He did not find what he was expecting. Far from it.

_**Letter the First**_

_I would hold you, if permitted, John. I would take you into these thin, reaching arms of mine and hold you close ; until you could feel everything within me. Until we melted into each other. I would lay a hand to your face and press my quivering mouth to your forehead, smoothing your brow, which is always so furrowed in your frustration._

_If I would allow myself, John, I would whisper my sentiments and my secrets- how I love you; how I long for you never to leave my side; how waking to your presence assures me that I am able to be okay, even when it seems like an impossible dream. John, if I would ever give myself the freedom, I would take you into my arms and whisper my secrets into your ear; and I would kiss your mouth, so sweetly, until you relented and kissed me back. I would._

_Oh, but John; I would never allow such a thing, for I am married to my work you know very well. Distractions; they keep me from my real addiction- the replacement for the cocaine. But I have feel that perhaps, I could afford such a distraction, and replace it with another; that distraction being you. For through careful study of your character, and how I feel, my dearest, simple John, I have found that the high you have managed to provide me this past year is much, much sweeter._

As his eyes roamed across the last few lines of smooth, slightly smudged writing on the page, John's hands began to shake. What exactly was this? Some kind of joke? Maybe something for an experiment? He hadn't the faintest idea. All he knew were that those words were most definitely in Sherlock's handwriting, and that they were supremely, frighteningly uncharacteristic.

And the title; 'Letter the First'. That obviously indicated that there were more. There had to be more. John didn't know what would become of him in that moment if there weren't. He found himself praying that there was more to this, and that it would make sense somehow. This was maddening.

He went for the next in the stack; another envelope, this one slightly more worn than the last, and containing something within it. He opened it, his hands a little unsteady, and tried to prepare himself for what he might find as he brought the page within his line of sight.

He did try to be prepared. Really, he did. But there was no preparing for this.

_...I tolerate this, John, because I love you, whether I like it or not. Somehow, all of my carefully constructed walls, which I have spent the whole of my life building, have somehow crumbled at your gentle touch. And now, my dearest John, my heart belongs to you- something I thought was impossible, frankly, for most days, it does not even belong to me. I usually have no use for it; but now it seems that you have given me one._

John couldn't seem to remember what air was, or how to bring any of it into his lungs. He was gasping, sitting there on the sofa and staring at these words that were written in Sherlock's hand but in no way could be his own. There was no way; absolutely no conceivable way for any of this to be true. It had to be some sort of very cruel, very well thought-out joke; because there was no way in this world or any of the others that Sherlock Holmes- the enigmatic, beautiful, blindingly brilliant and frustrating Sherlock Holmes- could ever be in love with him. As far as John knew, he'd never been in love, unless one counted Irene Adler. (He tried not to.)

As he moved on to the next letter, it dawned on him when these were written. They had to have been written while Sherlock was gone- while John was stuck back in London, consumed with grief over a man who was never really dead. The idea that he was getting a glimpse into that lost time seemed to blow his mind even further; he felt like he was in the middle of psychotic dream.

_...I mentioned, in the very beginning of this letter, that I have done many terrible things in my life. And the one that I regret- completely and totally- is inflicting this misery upon you. I've seen you- I have seen the lines on your face; the tiredness in your eyes; the defeat in your gait and the way you hold yourself._

_John, if I could ever take back one decision, it would be hurting you. You mean... You mean so much to me. More than I could ever admit, even to myself. You have shown me so much of the human side of life- what it is to use your heart for more than pumping blood and giving you life; what it means to have friends; to care. Things I spent the entirety of my life avoiding... Until you came in, of course. Until you changed... everything._

'I've seen you'- those words played on a loop inside his brain for a very long time, consuming him and destroying his thought process. He'd seen him? He had seen John in the aftermath of his supposed death? Suddenly, the thought of Sherlock being a witness to one of the rawest times in his life felt… Good. It felt good to know that he had seen first-hand what he'd done to him. That he had some semblance of understanding of what John had been put through.

He stopped for a moment before he continued onto the next letter, cradling his head in his hands and trying desperately to pull himself together long enough to read the rest. Because come hell or high water, John was going to read all of them- no matter how many there were, and no matter what they said. How he felt when he finished… Well, he would burn that bridge when he got to it.

The next letter was less emotionally damaging, though it still had an edge to it that made John's heart ache. He could tell what was happening; Sherlock had grown tired of the game, and was getting bored. But it wasn't like a case he could just dump and give back to Lestrade and the Yard to work out- he was in it until the end. He had to see it through.

John looked at the ceiling, took three deep, long breaths, and continued forward.

_**Letter the Fifth**_

_It's been so long since I've written one of these. That last letter was written a year ago to date. How could it have been so long already? How could two years have slipped away from me with so much ease?_

_I can hardly keep track of time. Not that it matters. It hardly matters right now- all that matters is finding them. Of ending this madness. Of keeping all of you safe._

_God, I hope you're safe._

_I don't pray, John. You know very well that I am not a religious man. But sometimes, I find myself sending my hopes and questions to the wind, seemingly on a whim. I hope that someone, anyone, is watching over you and keeping you out of harm's way. Not that anyone could harm you more than I have; I made sure of that, I think. I'm still paying for that. I don't think I'll ever stop. But if I could have anything right in this moment, it would be the assurance that you are safe. That you're okay. Healthy and alive and well. It's more than I can say for myself._

_I can't really say too much for myself at all, these days._

That last line crushed him. Well, in reality, the whole thing crushed him; but that last line in particular sent a pang of sorrow through his chest. He felt a shot of sudden, bone-deep affection for the man he called his best friend. never in his life had he ever felt so grateful to or moved by anyone, in all his life. He had seen so many things; done so many more; but yet here he was, bearing witness to the fact that Sherlock Holmes actually did care about John Watson- more so than anyone ever could have guessed at.

He composed himself as best as he could, and moved onto the next; and froze. Just that first word was enough to send another shock wave of emotion through him; he had to take a moment and control his breathing before he began to hyperventilate.

Afghanistan.

He had been to Afghanistan. Sherlock- all tall, pale, perfectly cliche English beauty- had been walking through the desert; through those crowded streets; under that merciless sun. He had walked where John had walked; probably even in some of the same places. The thought stopped him short for some reason.

_Being here makes me think of you._

_I've seen the soldiers- both American and British- and I can picture you among them, wearing your fatigues and heavy gear, a gun strapped to your back and a look of grim determination weathering your face. I take small comfort in the thought that you once felt this endless sun on your face; felt this sand beneath your boots; breathed this hot, dry air; heard the sounds of these people around you. I can picture it, so clearly, that I sometimes wonder if you really are here right now- even though I know that's impossible._

He had felt the same, apparently. And John could just imagine him, walking through streets with a covering on his head, wearing the loose cotton clothing of the locals, conversing in quick, perfect Arabic as he tried to get the information he needed. Could picture him moving, slick with sweat, through the hot dry air; squinting his eyes against the sand as a gust of wind blew it towards them. He pictured it so vividly, he thought he was there for a moment; felt the burn of the sun on his skin; the grit of the sand in the wind brush his face; felt the weight of his pack and gear dragging him down and making him heavier.

He shook it off, shuddering, as he came out of his little fantasy. He read the last of the letter; to his grateful surprise, it ended on a very pleasant note- there was a sense of hope that John knew Sherlock hadn't felt in a long time before the moments when he wrote that particular letter. The note of hope and excitement in his words made John smile; a warmth spread through him at the thought of Sherlock being happy at some point during his time away. he felt good knowing that there was a positive end to it.

But then he read the next one.

This particular letter was written very half-hazardly on what looked like cheap motel notebook paper; it was written with what was probably a quivering hand, and the ink was smudged in placed by the hand and… what looked like where drops of water had landed on it.

_**Letter the Seventh**_

_I'm sorry._

_I'm so, so, so sorry, John; for I have done the unthinkable. The unforgivable. Even writing the words will cause me grief._

_I submitted again, John._

_Looking back on the last letter, I wonder how I ever managed such a measure of happiness. Of hope. I knew it would end badly- I named it, very aptly, a fool's emotion. And I am the blindest of fools, John, for I ruined everything._

_Cocaine._

_What have I done? Why did I allow myself to fall into such a thing again? I swear that I never meant for it to come to this. Never, ever, ever. I just wanted... I don't even know what I wanted. Other than to go home and end this; I have no idea what I want._

_And now all I want is the high._

_My veins, John. They're aching. Screaming. So violently. The voices in my head- they never cease, they never shut up, they never stop. I scream back at them; they just laugh at me and keep going, talking forever and ever about everything- and it hurts. It hurts, and I am so tired. I just want this pain to end._

_I don't want to hurt anymore, John._

…

_I'm sorry._

This time, he really couldn't breathe. The wind was quite literally knocked from him- his breath left his body, and he felt as if he were deflating. He gasped as he read the words; understood the indescribable emotion behind them.

"Oh God," he whispered. "Oh God, oh God, Sherlock."

He stared and stared, and read the letter over a dozen times. Still he could barely process the idea; that Sherlock had fallen back into his old habits. That he had submitted and begun to use cocaine again. The idea of it was physically painful to John; his stomach cramped, and he thought as if he might be sick.

It took a whole ten minutes for him to muster the strength to read the next letter; to even look at the next page. He already knew it would be worse- it was written on the back of a takeaway bag of some sort, and the handwriting was sloppy and disastrously careless. He already knew, before he registered what it said, what the contents would be.

He had written the letter while he was high. It pained John, inside and out, to see what it had reduced his best friend to. Again, he was struck with the urge to be violently ill; he actually had to go to the bathroom and splash himself with cold water. He sat on the toilet, his head between his knees, shaking and pale and so heartbroken that he hurt all over.

This had been a mistake. He never should've opened that box; never decided to clean; never…. What? What was he supposed to do? His head was spinning; this was absolute madness. This was torture. Insanity. He couldn't really even muster the energy needed to compose himself and move on; because he had not seen this one coming. He'd been blindsided, and he didn't know how to deal with it.

It took another full ten minutes before he could even go back into the sitting room. He eyed the stack of letters with supreme apprehension; he was most definitely afraid of what other secrets they held.

It was with a heavy heart and trembling hands that he moved on to the next letter; this one was actually written on paper this time, and the handwriting was legible, so he felt a flicker of hope within himself at the sight of it. He did not, however, allow it to grow too much, for fear of what it would feel like if he hit the ground again.

Really, he thought he couldn't be more emotionally strained than he already was- but then Sherlock had to go and break his heart all over again. He had to go and write the tenth damn letter. And three words kept hitting him in the chest, pounding themselves into the fibre of his being.

_I miss you._

God- he wanted to scream. Never in his life had John had to fight so hard to do just that.

_I want you, John._

At those words, a small, painful, incoherent noise made its way out of his throat. His heart throbbed in his chest; and if the trembling in his hands had ever subsided before, it was definitely picking back up again. He drew in a ragged breath, blinking back tears, and tried not to completely fall apart as he moved on.

_I want you to tell me that everything is okay. To take me into your embrace and call me an idiot and tell me you hate me because I hurt you. And then I will tell you that I love you. You'll probably punch me or start crying or kiss me. Maybe all three. It wouldn't matter. I would let you do whatever you wanted; because it's you, and that's all that matters. It wouldn't matter if you broke my nose or blackened my eye or bruised my lips from kissing them too hard. It wouldn't matter because I know that even if you are angry, you care about me._

_I'm such a terrible person._

_But that wouldn't even matter to you, would it? I hope not. I don't know how much more I could take. I'm so very, very tired. And I simply long for the comforts of home- particularly you. You became everything to me. You still are; but you wouldn't know that, because you think I'm dead. I'm so sorry._

_I'll do everything in my power to make this up to you. I can think of nothing but my redemption. I will walk to the ends of the earth and back if that is what you ask of me, John, and you know it. I'll stop at nothing to prove your worth. I will spend the rest of my days trying to make it up to you, if that is what you ask of me. Because you're worth everything._

_You're the reason I've been going. Forget the need for revenge; forget the other people; forget the drugs. They don't matter. You do. It's always been you. I wish I could've told you that. I have a little hope left in me, though; for the last time I laid eyes on you, you said that you still believed in me. I'll hold you to that, John, and hope that even after these long three years, you still believe in me. Please believe in me. I'm begging you. Please believe in me, John. I don't know what I would do if you didn't._

The floodgates were open; and John Watson was reduced to tears and body-wracking sobs as he read the last few lines. He had never felt so emotional in all his life- and he'd thought he was a wreck the night Sherlock came back. He was so wrong.

He'd been wrong about a lot of things, from the looks of it.

Letters eleven and twelve were short bursts telling of his imminent homecoming. The tears slowed enough for John to actually read them; and his heart filled with a sense of lightness. What had he been doing while those words were being written? God only knew. But they filled him with something he couldn't even name. In fact, all of these letters filled him with that unnamable sensation; it spread through him, making him feel warm and cold and tingly all at once.

Finally, he moved on to the last letter in the stack. It was number thirteen, and it was much cleaner and nicer than the others. In fact, it was in perfect condition; there was nary a stain or crease on the crisp white envelope; the only thing to be seen was the faint traces of the ink on the page contained within it.

With shaking hands and a heart teetering on the edge, John opened the envelope, and unfolded the paper inside. It was covered in Sherlock's best, neatest handwriting; the letters were smooth, written with precision and the utmost care. He knew this would make or break him; that whatever was on this page would be the beginning of something he couldn't put a name or a face to.

He began to read.

_**Letter the Thirteenth**_

_I am currently writing this as I sit in the flat, waiting for you to come home. It is to my knowledge that you worked a shift at the surgery today, and then went out with your work mates for a few drinks. I expect, based on your drinking habits, that it will be a long night. _

_But I don't mind the waiting._

_So, while I wait for you, I sit and write my final letter. The letter that will never be seen by the man it is truly meant for, like its companions. Because you would never forgive me for what I have written in these tainted pages. I have done so much wrong by you in these last three years, John, that as I sit here and write, I feel fear. Real, true, deep fear within my heart. I fear what will happen when you see me. That you'll reject me. That you'll have moved on. That you don't need me anymore._

_That would be the worst blow of all- because I need you, John, now more than ever. And right now, I promise you that I will pull myself together again and clean up the mess I've made. That I will never give you a reason to hurt ever again. I refuse to see you hurt anymore. I'll do everything I can to make this right. I'll go back to rehab. I'll get on my knees and apologise in every language I know. Which is a lot. I will do whatever it takes to prove to you that I never stopped thinking of you or caring about you during these last three years._

_Forgive me, John. Find it in your heart to forgive me. It doesn't have to happen right now. I know it won't. That would be expecting far too much- and even I can admit how selfish that would be. But I do ask you to keep an open heart and an open mind. Please. If you oblige me anything, please let it be that. It's a lot to ask, since you don't owe me anything- not after what I've put you through. I can never stop apologising. Just... please._

_I hear you on the stairs, so it's time to sign off for the final time._

_I love you, John. I just wanted you to know that._

_Yours, truly and always,_

_Sherlock_

That was that. He couldn't take it anymore- John seized his mobile off the coffee table and pressed number one on his speed-dial. It rang three and a half times before the answer came.

"Hello?" That voice broke him.

"Get your arse home. Right now. No questions- get here this instant." John's voice was hard; he had to keep it that way in order to keep it from breaking.

"What's wrong?" Of course he knew there was something going on.

"Just get here. I won't explain; not now. Just… Come home."

"I'll be there in ten minutes," came the suddenly softer reply.

"Good."

He hung up and tossed the phone onto the table. He leaned back against the sofa, sinking into the cushions, and placed his arm over his face. God help him- this had to be the most emotionally straining day of his life. This was definitely not good for is already not good blood-pressure, which had gone into the unhealthy zone after Sherlock's… disappearance.

John heaved a very deep sigh, seeming to empty himself entirely of the air contained within him. This was complete and utter madness. He just hoped he wouldn't crumble into dust when Sherlock walked through the door.

Precisely eight minutes later, there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The door flew open, and Sherlock swept in, his body stiff and moving with the almost animal grace of his obvious urgency. He took off his coat and tossed it aside; the scarf was also lost as he swept forward.

His eyes immediately went to the stack of letters on the table, then to the last one, still in John's hand. He froze.

"John." His voice was weak and shaky. "I-"

"No. Just… Give me a moment, okay?"

He nodded and quietly sat in his chair. The tension between them was so thick is was like an extra person in the room. John's heart raced, and he knew his blood-pressure was rather high at the moment. He leaned forward, finally letting the letter out of his grasp, and took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself down enough to where he could function. He was also searching for something- anything- to say to the man who sat before him, his eyes fixed on him with an intensity that was like a living thing, crawling under his skin.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock."

He finally met the other man's gaze. Those chameleon eyes were bright with emotion and intensity; yet they never wavered.

"I just… You never planned to tell me any of this, did you?"

"No." His voice was hushed. He sounded almost… nervous.

"And why not?"

He sighed and ran a hand over his thighs, seeming to search within himself for an answer. He looked away for a moment, quiet and nervous and tense. After a moment, he finally met John's gaze again; he looked a little more sure of himself.

"I think we both know why, John."

That was true enough. He tried again; this time, he went with the first thing on his mind.

"You started doing cocaine again. How long has it been since your last hit?"

"Three days," he said, going for his trademark brutal honesty.

"You've been home for three weeks. And you used three days ago."

"It's not as frequent as it was when… I started back up. But I've spoken to Mycroft. He says if I can't quit cold turkey in the next two weeks, he's arranging for me to go to a rehabilitation centre. But I'll go sooner, if that's what you want, John."

There was an openness to his face and words that hit John right in the core. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take; but he was touched and relieved to know that Sherlock was willing to get help. He heaved a sigh before he answered.

"I won't make you go to rehab if you can quit on your own. But I do want you to see a doctor. I want to make sure that you're okay. And not just from the drugs- I want you to get a full physical and check-up."

He frowned in distaste, but nodded. "Of course."

"If you're more comfortable, I'll do the examinations. Either way, I want to make sure you're healthy."

He nodded. "Alright."

Onto the next, it seemed. John wasn't sure how to move on, though- how did one bring up the fact that he had found his best friend's secret confession of his love without sounding awkward? Oh, right. They didn't.

There was silence that stretched between them for a while; John wracked his brains, trying desperately to figure out what to say. Sherlock seemed equally lost in his own thoughts. Finally, however, the silence was broken when Sherlock spoke.

"How did you find them?"

"I was cleaning. I decided to go through and get rid of all the junk we don't need, and I found them on the bookshelf. Not your best hiding spot."

"Apparently not."

"Are… Are you angry that I read them?" he wasn't sure why he was asking this question; then again, they obviously were not meant to be read by him, even if they were written to him.

To John's surprise, he shook his head. "No. I'm not angry; why would I be angry? That's absurd."

"But you're not upset? Because clearly, they were never meant for me to actually read, anyway."

"I'm not upset," he said earnestly. 'Though I could have chosen a better hiding place." He looked thoughtful, as if he were really searching for his next words. "In fact, I… I'm sort of… glad that you found them."

That one took him by surprise, as well.

"You are?"

"It makes things less complicated," he said simply. "I… I don't like being dishonest with you if I can help it; and there are things contained within those pages that I shouldn't really keep to myself, anyway."  
"You're referring to your relapse."

Sherlock nodded. "That especially. But… The rest of it, as well. Especially in the… emotional area."

And there was the elephant in the room. The one part of his letters that had yet to be acknowledged; and the second heaviest weight on John's chest at the moment. He felt more at ease about the drugs- but the emotional details… That was gripping at him fiercely, vying for dominance in his thoughts.

"I might as well be straightforward here. Did… Did you mean all that? What you said about me? In the letters?" He asked quietly, his heart in his throat. He really hoped this wasn't a bad idea.

Sherlock shifted in his seat, fiddling with his jacket; running a hand through his hair; and looking everywhere but at John. With a start, he realized that Sherlock was… nervous. Rarely had John ever seen him so ill at ease.

"I… You don't really have to talk about it, if you don't want to. I mean, psychologically, it would make sense for you to say things like that, because we were always so close; and the drugs-"

He was rather abruptly cut off when Sherlock was suddenly in his face, those eyes of his (a stormy silver-grey at the moment) boring into his own. There was an intensity on his face reserved only for when he was in his deepest thought during the height of a case; and his hands gripped John's shoulders hard.

"Shut up," he growled. "Don't try to tell me that it was just psychological effects of emotional trauma; dammit, John. Don't you… Don't disregard me that way. I… I can't bear it."

And there it was. The mask was slipping; and John saw a raw vulnerability the likes of which he had never imagined Sherlock could ever possess. But there it was. He looked like he was teetering on the edge of sanity and madness; his eyes shone, his breathing was laboured, and his lip quivered- bless him. He looked like a child.

"Please."

The word was whispered. And damn it all, it got to him. It hit John right in the heart; and he would be damned if he said it didn't change everything within an instant. What exactly it changed, John couldn't be sure in that moment- all he knew was that he was having trouble breathing, and his eyes were swimming with tears, and that out of nowhere, he was kissing Sherlock, their mouths pushed together urgently. They grasped at each other with desperation; fingers dug into flesh, and small, incoherent sounds made their way out of their throats.

He couldn't breathe. He felt like someone had punched him in the gut; and his vision was blurry, and there was just Sherlock everywhere, all around him; and he didn't know what was happening. He just knew that was was sad and happy and so, so angry- but he didn't know what to do with any of it. His hands rested on Sherlock's face, their foreheads touching, as he tried to compose himself enough to gather his words and speak.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock whispered in the small space between them. "I am so, so sorry."

"Shut up," he whispered. "Just… shut up for a moment. Please. I'm begging you."

He fell silent. John took a moment to actually _look_ at the man in front of him; to let his eyes roam slowly over his face and register all of the details and meanings behind all of it. His lips were red and slightly swollen; there were two spots of colour high on his sharp cheekbones; his pupils were blown wide; his eyes were the colour of a stormy sea; there were errant curls stuck to his forehead with sweat.

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"Fuck."

"John?"

He opened his eyes to see Sherlock looking at him quizzically, looking perfectly puzzled. His forehead creased, his brow coming together in the way it always did when he was having trouble figuring something out.

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

He shook his head. "And that's the fucked up part, isn't it? I should hate you. I should never want to see your face again. But God can strike me down before I ever lose you again. Fuck."

"You should hate me, John. So why don't you?"

He licked his lips. "That's the money question."

They sat there for a moment, Sherlock kneeling in front of him, their minds both wandering and in a million different places. John looked into the other man's eyes and saw stars; he saw an entire universe concealed within the tall frame. He saw all of the invisible scars and broken trails of failed friendships; the heartache and suffering; the emotional ups and downs; the highs (both chemical and otherwise); the lows; everything.

And then he knew.

"You're a twat, you know," he said; and was suddenly surprised by the presence of tears rushing down his face. "You're a twat; and you're rude and arrogant and insufferable and so fucking difficult. But you are also the most beautiful person I have ever known in all my life… And bugger it all, I fucking love you."

There was definite shock on Sherlock's face. It was there for a split second before it became something much more beautiful; it turned into hope. Happiness. John thought he could die right then and be content for the sight of such a look on the other man's face.

Before he could speak, John was kissing him; he held him close, so close, his hands knotted in those curls as their mouths crashed together. And God, it felt good. It felt so good. There was so much- so many things that he never said; never could say; never knew he needed to say; that were all said in that one kiss. And he felt so… He felt everything. He felt like he was falling apart and coming together at the same time. It was incredible.

And when they broke apart, gasping and both in shock, there was a moment of silence between them. John swore you could hear their hearts beating individually for the depth of the silence in that moment.

"I…"

"I know," John whispered. "I know."

He simply held onto him for a very long time; they sat there like that, all cried out and emotionally worn and in each others' arms for an immeasurable amount of time.

"We… We'll get through this together. Whatever this is. And come Hell or high water… I'm here."

"Thank you."

They held each other for a very long time, and didn't say anything else at all. They didn't need words anymore; they'd had more than their fair share. The time for words was past. They had each other now; and that was all they'd ever needed. All they ever would need.

And they were both okay with that.


End file.
